Rowan dreamed of finding the seven Unity Koro and ruling all of Althoria. But first, he had to get his hands on that honey bun. Right now, destiny could wait. The last pastry at the Harvest Festival was calling, and Rowan wasn’t about to miss out. He tore down the hill, the wind chasing him like a jealous rival, while the wheat fields thundered in golden applause. From the top of the hill to the valley below, the town of Zyranth bloomed with color and sound. Ribbons in every shade fluttered from the rooftops. Painted banners swayed across the cobblestone

When Rowan was four, the world seemed endless and full of magic. Golden fields stretched far beyond the village. The cottages, with mossy roofs and sturdy beams, stood close together like little mountains guarding their people. And above it all, the sky was endless and blue, a dreamy canvas that felt big enough to hold every wish Rowan could imagine. That evening, the wind carried a secret. It whispered across the hilltop as if trying to speak in a language only the heart could hear. Rowan stood barefoot in the tall grass, the blades brushing against his knees as the

Rowan hit the ground hard. His knees buckled, and he rolled to his side. His breathing came in sharp bursts, each one shaky and uneven. The heavy and strange silence rang in his ears. Slowly, he pushed himself up, his hand quivering as he raised it into the soft light, unsure of what he might find. Rowan glanced around the crater, but the Windkoro had vanished. He went to dust off his sleeve, but stopped short when he caught the glow in his palm. There, beneath his skin, a faint swirl of light shimmered softly, like a star trying not